Poems

LINES

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. —Moore.

Was that fold for the lambkin soft virtue's repose,Where the weary and earth-stricken lay down their woes, —When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and sere,And the mountains more friendless, – their home is not here?When the herd had forsaken, and left them to strayFrom the green sunny slopes of the woodland away;Where the music of waters had fled to the sea,And this life but one given to suffer and be?Was it then thou didst call them to banish all pain,And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho againTo a strain of enchantment that flowed as the wave,Where they waited to welcome the murmur it gave?Oh, there's never a shadow where sunshine is not,And never the sunshine without a dark spot;Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and fame,Without heart to define them, were only a name!Lynn, Mass., February 19, 1868.

TO THE SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN

Who sent me the picture depictive of Isaiah xiJesus loves you! so does mother:Glad thy Eastertide:Loving God and one another,You in Him abide.Ours through Him who gave you to us, —Gentle as the dove,Fondling e'en the lion furious,Leading kine with love.Father, in Thy great heart hold themEver thus as Thine!Shield and guide and guard them; and, whenAt some siren shrineThey would lay their pure hearts' off'ring,Light with wisdom's ray —Beacon beams – athwart the weakly,Rough or treacherous way.Temper every trembling footfall,Till they gain at last —Safe in Science, bright with glory —Just the way Thou hast:Then, O tender Love and wisdom,Crown the lives thus blestWith the guerdon of Thy bosom,Whereon they may rest!Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., April 3, 1899.

HOPE

Tis borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour;It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower, —An infinite essence from tropic to pole,The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul.Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower,And loosens the fetters of pride and of power;It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain,To beautify, bless, and make joyful again.The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time;A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine;The God-given mandate that speaks from above, —No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love.

TO ETTA

Fair girl, thy rosebud heart rests warmWithin life's summer bowers!Nor blasts of winter's angry storm,Nor April's changeful showers,Its leaves have shed or bowed the stem;But gracefully it stands —A gem in beauty's diadem,Unplucked by ruthless hands.Thus may it ripen into bloom,Fresh as the fragrant sod,And yield its beauty and perfumeAn offering pure to God.Sweet as the poetry of heaven,Bright as her evening star,Be all thy life in music given,While beauty fills each bar.Lynn, Mass., December 8, 1866.

NEVERMORE

Are the dear days ever coming again,As sweetly they came of yore,Singing the olden and dainty refrain,Oh, ever and nevermore?Ever to gladness and never to tears,Ever the gross world above;Never to toiling and never to fears,Ever to Truth and to Love?Can the forever of happiness beOutside this ever of pain?Will the hereafter from suffering freeThe weary of body and brain?Weary of sobbing, like some tired childOver the tears it has shed;Weary of sowing the wayside and wild,Watching the husbandman fled;Nevermore reaping the harvest we deem,Evermore gathering in woe —Say, are the sheaves and the gladness a dream,Or to the patient who sow?Lynn, Mass., September 3, 1871.

MEETING OF MY DEPARTED MOTHER AND HUSBAND

Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark is pastThe dangerous sea, and safely moored at last —Beyond rough foam.Soft gales celestial, in sweet music bore —Spirit emancipate for this far shore —Thee to thy home."You've traveled long, and far from mortal joys,To Soul's diviner sense, that spurns such toys,Brave wrestler, lone.Now see thy ever-self; Life never fled;Man is not mortal, never of the dead:The dark unknown."When hope soared high, and joy was eagle-plumed,Thy pinions drooped; the flesh was weak, and doomedTo pass away.But faith triumphant round thy death-couch shedMajestic forms; and radiant glory spedThe dawning day."Intensely grand and glorious life's sphere, —Beyond the shadow, infinite appearLife, Love divine, —Where mortal yearnings come not, sighs are stilled,And home and peace and hearts are found and filled,Thine, ever thine."Bearest thou no tidings from our loved on earth,The toiler tireless for Truth's new birthAll-unbeguiled?Our joy is gathered from her parting sigh:This hour looks on her heart with pitying eye, —What of my child?""When, severed by death's dream, I woke to Life,She deemed I died, and could not know the strifeAt first to fillThat waking with a love that steady turnsTo God; a hope that ever upward yearns,Bowed to His will."Years had passed o'er thy broken household band,When angels beckoned me to this bright land,With thee to meet.She that has wept o'er thee, kissed my cold brow,Rears the sad marble to our memory now,In lone retreat."By the remembrance of her loyal life,And parting prayer, I only know my wife,Thy child, shall come —Where farewells cloud not o'er our ransomed rest —Hither to reap, with all the crowned and blest,Of bliss the sum."When Love's rapt sense the heartstrings gently sweepWith joy divinely fair, the high and deep,To call her home,She shall mount upward unto purer skies;We shall be waiting, in what glad surprise,Our spirits' own!"

ISLE OF WIGHT

On receiving a painting of the Isle.

Isle of beauty, thou art singingTo my sense a sweet refrain;To my busy mem'ry bringingScenes that I would see again.Chief, the charm of thy reflecting,Is the moral that it brings;Nature, with the mind connecting,Gives the artist's fancy wings.Soul, sublime 'mid human débris,Paints the limner's work, I ween,Art and Science, all unweary,Lighting up this mortal dream.Work ill-done within the mistyMine of human thoughts, we seeSoon abandoned when the MasterCrowns life's Cliff for such as we.Students wise, he maketh now thusThose who fish in waters deep,When the buried Master hails usFrom the shores afar, complete.Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordlingIn a beauty strong and meekAs the rock, whose upward tendingPoints the plane of power to seek.Isle of beauty, thou art teachingLessons long and grand, tonight,To my heart that would be bleachingTo thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.

SPRING

Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,And paint the gray, stark trees,The bud, the leaf and wing —Bring with thee brush and breeze.And soft thy shading layOn vale and woodland deep;With sunshine's lovely rayLight o'er the rugged steep.More softly warm and weaveThe patient, timid grass,Till heard at silvery evePoor robin's lonely mass.Bid faithful swallows comeAnd build their cozy nests,Where wind nor storm can numbTheir downy little breasts.Come at the sad heart's call,To empty summer bowers,Where still and dead are allThe vernal songs and flowers.It may be months or yearsSince joyous spring was there.O come to clouds and tearsWith light and song and prayer!

JUNE

Whence are thy wooings, gentle June?Thou hast a naiad's charm;Thy breezes scent the rose's breath;Old Time gives thee her palm.The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn:The eve-bird's forest fluteGives back some maiden melody,Too pure for aught so mute.The fairy-peopled world of flowers,Enraptured by thy spell,Looks love unto the laughing hours,Through woodland, grove, and dell;And soft thy footstep falls uponThe verdant grass it weaves;To melting murmurs ye have stirredThe timid, trembling leaves.When sunshine beautifies the shower,As smiles through teardrops seen,Ask of its June, the long-hushed heart,What hath the record been?And thou wilt find that harmonies,In which the Soul hath part,Ne'er perish young, like things of earth,In records of the heart.

RONDELET

The flowers of JuneThe gates of memory unbar:The flowers of JuneSuch old-time harmonies retune,I fain would keep the gates ajar, —So full of sweet enchantment areThe flowers of June.– James T. White.Who loves not JuneIs out of tuneWith love and God;The rose his rival reigns,The stars reject his pains,His home the clod!And yet I trow,When sweet rondeauDoth play a part,The curtain drops on June;Veiled is the modest moon —Hushed is the heart.

AUTUMN

Quickly earth's jewels disappear;The turf, whereon I tread,Ere autumn blanch another year,May rest above my head.Touched by the finger of decayIs every earthly love;For joy, to shun my weary way,Is registered above.The languid brooklets yield their sighs,A requiem o'er the tombOf sunny days and cloudless skies,Enhancing autumn's gloom.The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan,To scare my woodland walk,And frightened fancy flees, to roamWhere ghosts and goblins stalk.The cricket's sharp, discordant screamFills mortal sense with dread;More sorrowful it scarce could seem;It voices beauty fled.Yet here, upon this faded sod, —O happy hours and fleet, —When songsters' matin hymns to GodAre poured in strains so sweet,My heart unbidden joins rehearse,I hope it's better made,When mingling with the universe,Beneath the maple's shade.Written in girlhood, in a maple grove.

ALPHABET AND BAYONET

If fancy plumes aerial flight,Go fix thy restless mindOn learning's lore and wisdom's might,And live to bless mankind.The sword is sheathed, 'tis freedom's hour,No despot bears misrule,Where knowledge plants the foot of powerIn our God-blessed free school.Forth from this fount the streamlets flow,That widen in their course.Hero and sage arise to showScience the mighty source,And laud the land whose talents rockThe cradle of her power,And wreaths are twined round Plymouth Rock,From erudition's bower.Farther than feet of chamois fall,Free as the generous air,Strains nobler far than clarion callWake freedom's welcome, whereMinerva's silver sandals stillAre loosed, and not effete;Where echoes still my day-dreams thrill,Woke by her fancied feet.

THE COUNTRY-SEAT

Wild spirit of song, – midst the zephyrs at playIn bowers of beauty, – I bend to thy lay,And woo, while I worship in deep sylvan spot,The Muses' soft echoes to kindle the grot.Wake chords of my lyre, with musical kiss,To vibrate and tremble with accents of bliss.Here morning peers out, from her crimson repose,On proud Prairie Queen and the modest Moss-rose;And vesper reclines – when the dewdrop is shedOn the heart of the pink – in its odorous bed;But Flora has stolen the rainbow and sky,To sprinkle the flowers with exquisite dye.Here fame-honored hickory rears his bold form,And bares a brave breast to the lightning and storm,While palm, bay, and laurel, in classical glee,Chase tulip, magnolia, and fragrant fringe-tree;And sturdy horse-chestnut for centuries hath givenIts feathery blossom and branches to heaven.Here is life! Here is youth! Here the poet's world-wish, —Cool waters at play with the gold-gleaming fish;While cactus a mellower glory receivesFrom light colored softly by blossom and leaves;And nestling alder is whispering low,In lap of the pear-tree, with musical flow.1Dark sentinel hedgerow is guarding repose,Midst grotto and songlet and streamlet that flowsWhere beauty and perfume from buds burst away,And ope their closed cells to the bright, laughing day;Yet, dwellers in Eden, earth yields you her tear, —Oft plucked for the banquet, but laid on the bier.Earth's beauty and glory delude as the shrineOr fount of real joy and of visions divine;But hope, as the eaglet that spurneth the sod,May soar above matter, to fasten on God,And freely adore all His spirit hath made,Where rapture and radiance and glory ne'er fade.Oh, give me the spot where affection may dwellIn sacred communion with home's magic spell!Where flowers of feeling are fragrant and fair,And those we most love find a happiness rare;But clouds are a presage, – they darken my lay:This life is a shadow, and hastens away.

TO ELLEN. "SING ME THAT SONG!"

O Sing me that song! My spirit is sad,Life's pulses move fitful and slow;A meeting with loved ones in dreams I have had,Whose robes were as spotless as snow:A phantom of joy, it fled with the light,And left but a parting in air.My soul is enchained to life's dreary night,O sing me "Sweet hour of prayer"!Ah, sleep, twin sister of death and of night!My thoughts 'neath thy drap'ry still lie.Alas! that from dreams so boundless and brightWe waken to life's dreary sigh.Those moments most sweet are fleetest alway,For love claspeth earth's raptures not long,Till darkness and death like mist melt away,To rise to a seraph's new song.O'er ocean or Alps, the stranger who roamsBut gathers a wreath for his bier;For life hath its music in low minor tones,And man is the cause of its tear.But drops of pure nectar our brimming cup fill,When we walk by that murmuring stream;Or when, like the thrill of that mountain rill,Your songs float in memory's dream.Sweet spirit of love, at soft eventideWake gently the chords of her lyre,And whisper of one who sat by her sideTo join with the neighboring choir;And tell how that heart is silent and sad,No melody sweeps o'er its strings!'Tis breaking alone, but a young heart and glad —Might cheer it, perchance, when she sings.Lynn, Mass., August 25, 1866.

LINES, ON VISITING PINE GROVE CEMETERY

Ah, why should the brief bliss of life's little dayGrow cold in this spot as the spiritless clay,And thought be at work with the long-buried hours,And tears be bedewing these fresh-smiling flowers!Ah, wherefore the memory of dear ones deemed deadShould bow thee, as winds bow the tall willow's head!Beside you they walk while you weep, and but passFrom your sight as the shade o'er the dark wavy grass.The cypress may mourn with her evergreen tears,And, like the blue hyacinth, change not with years;Yea, flowers of feeling may blossom above,To yield earth the fragrance of goodness and love;So one heart is left me – she breathes in my ear,"I'm living to bless thee; for this are we here."And when this sweet pledge to my lone heart was given,Earth held but this joy, or this happiness heaven!Here the rock and the sea and the tall waving pineEnchant deep the senses, – subduing, sublime;Yet stronger than these is the spell that hath powerTo sweep o'er the heartstrings in memory's hour.Of the past 'tis the talisman, when we three met,When the star of our friendship arose not to set;And pure as its rising, and bright as the star,Be its course through our heavens, whether near or afar.Lynn, Mass., August 24, 1865.

A VERSE

Mother's New Year Gift to the Little ChildrenFather-Mother God,Loving me, —Guard me when I sleep;Guide my little feetUp to Thee.To the Big ChildrenFather-Mother good, lovinglyThee I seek, —Patient, meek,In the way Thou hast, —Be it slow or fast,Up to Thee.

TRUTH

Beyond the clouds, awayIn the dim distance, layA bright and golden showerAt sunset's radiant hour, —Like to the soul's glad immortality,Making this life divine,Making its waters wine,Giving the glory that eye cannot see.In God there is no night, —Truth is eternal light,A help forever near;For sinless sense is hereIn Truth, the Life, the Principle of man.Away, then, mortal sense!Then, error, get thee hence,Thy discord ne'er in harmony began!Immortal Truth, – since heaven rang,The while the glad stars sangTo hail creation's glorious morn —As when this babe was born,A painless heraldry of Soul, not sense, —Shine on our 'wildered way,Give God's idea sway,And sickness, sin, and death are banished hence.Lynn, Mass., April, 1871.

"THE LIBERTY BELLS"

This is the hour they then foretold —When earth, inebriate with crime,Laughed right to scorn, and guilt, grown bold,Knelt worshiping at mammon's shrine.This is the hour! Corruption's bandIs driven back; and periled right,Rescued by the "fanatic" hand,Spans our broad heaven of light.Righteousness ne'er – awestruck or dumb —Feared for an hour the tyrant's heel!Injustice to the combat sprang;God to the rescue – Liberty, peal!Joy is in every belfry bell —Joy for the captive! Sound it long!Ye who have wept fourscore can tellThe holy meaning of their song.'Tis freedom's birthday – blood-bought boon!O war-rent flag! O soldier-shroud!Thine be the glory – nor too soonIs heard your "Cry aloud!"O not too soon is rent the chainAnd charter, trampling right in dust!Till God is God no longer – ne'er againQuench liberty that's just.Lynn, Mass., February 3, 1865.

"MEMENTO"

Respectfully inscribed to my friends in Lynn.

I come to theeO'er the moonlit sea,When the hoarse wave revisits thy shore!When waters shout,And the stars peep out,I am with thee in spirit once more.Then list the moanOf the billows' foam,Laving with surges thy silv'ry beach!Night's dewy eye,The sea-mew's lone cry,Witness my presence and utter my speech.Pleasant a graveBy the "Rock" or wave,And afar from life's turmoil its goal.No sculptured lie,Or hypocrite sigh,E'er to mock the bright truth of the soul.Friends, will not yeThink kindly of me,In those moments to memory bestowed?Smile on me yet,O blue eyes and jet,Soft as when parting thy sympathy glowed!March 3, 1867.

COMMUNION HYMN

Saw ye my Saviour? Heard ye the glad sound?Felt ye the power of the Word?'Twas the Truth that made us free,And was found by you and meIn the life and the love of our Lord.Mourner, it calls you, – "Come to my bosom,Love wipes your tears all away,And will lift the shade of gloom,And for you make radiant roomMidst the glories of one endless day."Sinner, it calls you, – "Come to this fountain,Cleanse the foul senses within;'Tis the Spirit that makes pure,That exalts thee, and will cureAll thy sorrow and sickness and sin."Strongest deliverer, friend of the friendless,Life of all being divine:Thou the Christ, and not the creed;Thou the Truth in thought and deed;Thou the water, the bread, and the wine.

LAUS DEO!

The laying of the corner-stone of The Mother Church.

Laus Deo, it is done!Rolled away from loving heartIs a stone.Lifted higher, we depart,Having one.Laus Deo, – on this rock(Heaven chiseled squarely good)Stands His church, —God is Love, and understoodBy His flock.Laus Deo, night star-litSlumbers not in God's embrace;Be awake;Like this stone, be in thy place:Stand, not sit.Grave, silent, steadfast stone,Dirge and song and shoutings lowIn thy heartDwell serene, – and sorrow? No,It has none,Laus Deo!

OUR NATIONAL THANKSGIVING HYMN

God of the rolling year! to Thee we raiseA nation's holiest hymn in grateful praise!Plenty and peace abound at Thy behest,Yet wherefore this Thy love? Thou knowest best!Thou who, impartial, blessings spreadst abroad,Thou wisdom, Love, and Truth, – divinely God!Who giveth joy and tears, conflict and rest,Teaching us thus of Thee, who knowest best!Ruler Supreme! to Thee we'll meekly bow,When we have learned of Truth what Thou doest now —Why from this festive hour some dear lost guestBears hence its sunlit glow – Thou knowest best!How have our honored dead fought on in gloom!Peace her white wings will spread over their tomb;Why waited their reward, triumph and rest,Till molds the hero form? Thou knowest best!Shades of our heroes! the Union now is one,The star whose destiny none may outrun;Tears of the bleeding slave poured on her breast,When to be wiped away, Thou knowest best!Thou who in the Christ hallowed its grief, —O meekest of mourners, while yet the chief, —Give to the pleading hearts comfort and rest,In that benediction which knoweth best!Lynn, Mass., December 7, 1865.

SATISFIED

It matters not what be thy lot,So Love doth guide;For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,Whate'er betide.And of these stones, or tyrants' thrones,God able isTo raise up seed – in thought and deed —To faithful His.Aye, darkling sense, arise, go hence!Our God is good.False fears are foes – truth tatters those,When understood.Love looseth thee, and lifteth me,Ayont hate's thrall:There Life is light, and wisdom might,And God is All.The centuries break, the earth-bound wake,God's glorified!Who doth His will – His likeness still —Is satisfied.Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., January, 1900.

1

An alder growing from the bent branch of a pear-tree.